It wasn't easy. It really wasn't. John was prepared to admit that it was the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do. Even Sherlock couldn't deny that it was hard.
There was a new tension between the two men, uncomfortable, unwanted. It felt like there was a string between them, attaching them to one-another, not pulled tight enough to snap, but tight enough to be digging in on either side. An invisible cloud hung over the two inhabitants of 221B, a constant reminder of the past two months. Whatever this new feeling was, neither liked it. What used to be a comfortable routine now seemed forced and bland. Simple things like making a cup of tea seemed like a chore.
There was nothing to move. All of Sherlock's belongings had remained in the flat, untouched. John knew that he would have secretly missed the place. He caught the detective running his hands over what seemed to be completely ordinary, even mundane, everyday objects. But John knew that Sherlock wanted to take in every detail about the flat. The brief, yet unexpected separation from 221B must have affected him. John wasn't stupid. He knew that Sherlock had a heart, it was just too often overshadowed by his mind.
They had agreed not to take on any cases – private or through the Yard – until they had settled back into normality. Sherlock had never liked being patient. For him it was an unnecessary characteristic, waiting infuriated him. He needed something, anything to distract his mind. Only John was the exception. Sherlock knew that John needed the time, needed him to have patience, to just wait, and help. John was the only exception to a lot of things.
Sherlock had done everything he could to make his return as easy and as painless for John as possible. He bought the shopping, and managed to put it away in the right cupboards (with a little help from Mrs Hudson). He refrained from visiting the hospital to do some personal research, and there hadn't been any decomposing limbs or organs since his return. Sherlock had even gone out of his way to make sure that there was only the required amount of any kind of pill in the flat. He had given the rest to Mrs Hudson to keep in her flat and were to only be returned on Sherlock's orders. He remembered how John had done this with his supply when there was an immanent danger night.
John felt restless. He wanted to get out and about, get a case and watch Sherlock work his magic. But he didn't feel ready. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, but he was aware of the feeling in the pit of his stomach. He watched Sherlock move about the flat, getting the shopping, removing the pills. This made John feel better, it confirmed that Sherlock cared enough to search the entire flat, every nook and cranny, every crack in the floorboard and every hiding place, to make sure John would never attempt to take his own life again. But still this felling was present. Not growing, not shrinking, just lying dormant, waiting.
After a few days of being cooped up together in the flat, the two of them decided they needed some fresh air. Sherlock had dashed into his room and come out wearing something completely 'un-Sherlock'. He was wearing a pair of faded denim jeans, ripped at the knees and had obviously been loved once as they looked well worn. A dark, brown jumper covered his torso and he pulled a beige coloured beanie down over his curls. He placed a pair of rounded glasses on his face and turned towards the doctor. If John didn't know it was Sherlock, he would have mistaken him for a uni student, at least 10 tears younger than his actual age. No-one would recognise him, unless the were about 3 inches from his face and looking incredibly hard.
"We don't need publicity, not at the moment. The time will come, John, but not quite yet." Said Sherlock as he moved towards the door. He paused in the frame, his fingers lingering on the sleeve of his favourite coat and blue scarf. They were there only a moment before he moved out the door and down the stairs. John followed, as eager to escape from this new tension.
As he made his way out onto Baker Street, he saw Sherlock jump in and drive away. A beeping sound came from the direction of John's coat pocket. He reached in and pulled the device out. A message flashed across the scene.
Take the next cab to St James's Park. Too suspicious if we travel together. – SH
John let out a sigh and hailed the next available taxi. He told the cabbie where to go, and slumped back into the seat staring out the window. An ache began in his chest, and unpleasant thoughts flashed through his mind.
'What if he doesn't turn up? What if he's left me again? What if his taxi crashed? Or his cabbie was yet another homicidal psychopath? What if, what if, what if...'
John's head was spinning. His mouth was dry and his breathing had become shallow and quick. He needed to see Sherlock. Now. He needed to see with his own two eyes that the world's only consulting detective was alive. He asked his cabbie of they could go any faster, passing off his anxieties as a frantic dash to a family emergency.
The taxi pulled up and John got out, paid the fee and ran. Ran only a few metres before stopping and turning, looking in earnest for any sign of his best friend. He couldn't see him, he wasn't there. He could feel the panic rising in him, feel his heightened anxiety taking hold. It seemed as if I vice was squeezing around his chest, he couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth to scream Sherlock's name. But he remembered that they were supposed to be on the down low. He was helpless. He turned again and again on the same spot, searching frantically for any signs of Sherlock. Tears began to spill over and roll down his face as he became more desperate. He gasped in large quantities of air, but it didn't seem to make any difference. The passers by were watching him with looks of concern, some even looked panicked. John's mind was going fuzzy, his vision was blurring over.
A strong arm gripped him under his shoulder, another encircled his waist and held him upright. John could smell the gunpowder, tea and mint, mixed in with the scent of freshly cut grass and decaying leaves that emanated form their surroundings. It could have only been Sherlock. Sure enough, the tall, dark haired detective was helping the doctor to a nearby bench. He sat John down and knelt on the floor in front of him. He took John's face between his hands and looked at him straight in the eyes.
"John, breathe! Deep breaths! In and out! In – 1, 2, 3, 4 – out – 1, 2, 3, 4. Look at me John," the doctors eyelids had begun to droop, "John, keep your eyes on me! Breathe!" They continued the exercise for at least 10 minutes. When John had regained his breath, Sherlock sat down next to him and leaned his head back. This was going to be harder than he thought.
On his way here, Sherlock had been deep in thought. He knew he needed to do something. He hated the way John seemed to be avoiding him, yet at the same time following him. This was an entirely one-sided game of cat and mouse where John played both the cat and mouse, and Sherlock didn't like it. He wanted things back the way they used to be, but he knew that there was no chance of that happening.
He was now faced with three choices. One – he stays at 221B and prolongs this torture until it sorts itself out. Two – He and John sit down again and have a real conversation about the possible solutions to the problem. This was likely to be an awkward conversation as Sherlock knew that the majority of the blame rested on him. Three – He leave Baker Street, leave John, leave London. He releases John from the stresses of their life together and allows him to move on with his life. Sherlock considered all three options carefully. He had just settled on one as the cab pulled up. He got out and moved into the park. He waited there for John, deciding on how he was going to approach this. It would be painful, messy. But it would be better for John in the long-term. Sherlock closed his eyes and began to imagine how the conversation would take shape.
'John, I know how much I've hurt you, but please understand that what I'm about to do I do with the best intentions…'
It was at this point he had seen John, turning, frantic, panic obvious in his face. His breathing looked shallow, yet too frequent. He stumbled and Sherlock ran. He ran to his best friend's side.
Sherlock returned to the present and looked over at his flat-mate, who seemed to be calming down, although the tears were still rolling down his face. Panic attack, and a nasty one, probably brought on by the heightened anxiety which had ensnared John, causing irrational panicking whenever he was away from Sherlock. Irrational as it was, thought Sherlock, it was understandable. John had lost Sherlock once before, and he never wanted to lose him again. Obviously the very idea had put him in such a state that he had nearly passed out in the middle of the day, in front of a large number of people. He reached out and took John's wrist, his long, slender fingers pinpointing the location of John's pulse. It was fast, but slowing. The soldier's hands were trembling. John was still repeating the breathing exercises and made no attempt to stop Sherlock. To an onlooker, they could pass as a couple, but John and Sherlock did not care.
Once John had finally calmed down completely, Sherlock had reached the flaw in his plan. He couldn't leave John again, it would kill him. It was too dangerous. If this is what a 10 minute separation did to him, Sherlock wasn't going to risk leaving him, even for one night, So that left two options.
"John, we need to talk about this."
"Mmm…" The doctor mumbled, eyes still half closed.
"Neither of us are happy, John. Something needs to change."
John's eyes snapped open. He knew Sherlock was right, of course he was. He could practically hear Sherlock's brain whirring, figuring, calculating. He watched him with intent. John liked to just watch Sherlock when he was thinking. He often tried to figure out what thoughts must be running through the genius's head. It was fascinating.
"John," Sherlock continued, his eyebrows knitted together, "we need to talk about this. We can't go on like this." John let out a sigh. He knew that it was inevitable. Hadn't John's panic attack proved things had changed? Sherlock may have been the intellectually superior of the two, but John was most definitely not an idiot. Until they cleared the air completely, they could never go back to the way things used to be, no matter how much they tried.
"Okay, we'll talk." John agreed.
Sherlock turned towards John and saw him properly for the first time since his apology. He was slouched over, defeated feeling. The bags under his eyes were darker and more noticeable, little or no sleep, increase in the amount of nightmares, despite his return. Gained 4lbs, eating well, he was clearly having a slightly positive effect. Hands were steady, even after his attack, John found Sherlock's presence calming and his absence terrifying. John's shirt had traces of toast around the lapel, left over from breakfast this morning. His fingers had the faintest traces of ink, where it had rubbed off when he had was reading the morning paper, only browsing though, too little ink for him to have been properly reading, trying to keep up with the world after 2 months of nothing. Every now and again he would stretch his fingers out, before they curled back towards the centre of his palm. RSI, caused by the amount of typing John had done the other day.
John had typed out the whole of Sherlock's story, but had not published it. Sherlock guessed that John had the same idea as him when it came to publicity. Keep it secret until they were ready, and John was obviously not ready.
Who knows how long the two friends were sat there, Sherlock deducing, John thinking. They remained sat there in total silence for a little while longer, as Sherlock concluded his observations.
"Come on, we best get you back to the flat, and maybe Mrs Hudson can get you something for shock." Sherlock began to lift his friend off of the bench.
"I'm pretty sure I have a blanket somewhere that would do," remarked John. Both men froze and there was a moments silence, before the erupted into hysterical laughter. People walking past shot them strange, wary looks, but the men were so overcome with laughter that neither of them noticed. In that simple statement, some of the tension between then disappeared, the string became slightly looser, and they felt the more comfortable with each other than they had done since Sherlock's return
"Come on John," said Sherlock, still chucking with his deep laugh, almost like a cat's purr, "let's go home."
Home. I felt good to say, and even better to hear.